Craving Carvings
Late-Night Escapades It's night. You're 2 days into a 3-week trip, and you're alone. No knowledge. No family. You must survive. You must adapt. The roiling of your stomach forces you to rise from the mattress on the floor of the Airbnb you've rented. With nothing but strange Eastern-European dark chocolate in the fridge, you must forage for your food this evening. You navigate down through the apartment building, out through the glass doors, and into the cold, unforgiving streets of the upper-class college town. You scan your eyes up and down the dark avenue, searching for a sign, when suddenly... There it is, directly across from you, the words "Carvings" stand out on the window of a well-lit diner. Open? Under the full glow of the moon? It's almost ominous--the bright light, the inviting smells, as if its a Siren's song, luring you into the deadly, meaty embrace.The hour is late and your hunger is great: you have to risk it. Crossing the street is an easy feat on foot, and you imagine it would be no more difficult with any sort of mobility-enhancing accommodation. Likewise, the few empty spaces on the side of the road could easily accommodate a car--you muse for no reason in particular. You also note that the address is 2021 F St NW, Washington, DC 20006. Getting closer, you find a reason for these unnatural hours of operation. The shop almost defiantly boasts in plain text that it is open from 7 am to Midnight everyday, and extends to 2 am on the weekends with only a 3 pm-5 pm lunch break offering reprieve for the doomed souls toiling within. Menu Not only are there savory sandwiches and wraps on the menu, but a breakfast menu is available during the morning shift, and a variety of snacks, minor grocery products, and drinks are haphazardly scattered throughout the deli without any explanation offered. Experimentation is encouraged. Items ordered from the menu will be served in a Styrofoam to-go box, unless you eat in enough that you are considered a regular, in which case they will surprise you with a paper plate and plastic utensils. Protocol Upon entering the room, you are faced with an L-shaped counter separating the dining area from the kitchen. At the bottom of the L, a wizened Asian man stares at you expectantly, waiting to measure his toll. Vulgar rap music blasts from speakers unseen, you shuffle down the left side of the "L", grabbing a snack and drink on your way. At the end, menus await for your perusal under the watchful gaze of the chef who only occasionally ignores you to browse his phone. After randomly selecting a sandwich to end the awkward standoff, you return to the old man to pay and await your finished order. Hot meal in hand and sense of self-sufficiency restored, you rush back to the apartment to eat your sandwich while looking at a picture of what seems to be some old Soviet propaganda. The days advance. The scene repeats. A routine is built, familiarity formed. As the stranger knows the traveler, a heart is extended. Until, without notice, his home calls. A blossom opens, and falls.